The final work produced by an artist often seems imbued with a distinctive air of poignancy. In the case of Patrice Chéreau, who died in 2013, his last operatic production was a striking one: Elektra, a work of pervasive violence and mental anguish that stands as Richard Strauss’s furthest adventure into modernism. Chéreau’s theatrical vision tends to favour intentionally anachronistic stagings, most notably his now-famous 1976 Ring of the Nibelung production. There, the costumes and set designs evoked imagery from the early nineteenth century, replacing the ancient Nordic setting. The controversial 1979 production of Alban Berg’s Lulu similarly involved Chéreau taking great artistic liberties, this time by allowing extras to wander onto the stage during key scenes despite strict instructions from the composer’s libretto. More recently, Chéreau undertook a production of Leoš Janáček’s From the House of the Dead, in 2007, fashioning a visual world strikingly similar to that found within his staging of Elektra.
Chéreau’s staging for this production of Elektra is minimal and austere, comprising a single set that changes only through alterations in lighting. Employing the Aristotelian doctrine of unity of place to an extreme, the set creates an oppressive sense of interiority with its high, unadorned walls that constrain the characters. Into this ancient story of revenge, Chéreau interjects our own contemporary anxieties regarding a (post-)apocalyptic future, lending the dramaturgy an overall ethos that is at once gripping and frightening. In addition, the tattered and ascetic clothing of many of the characters appears intentionally dystopian in tone. By keeping the stage nearly barren and costumes neutral, Chéreau visually highlights the fact that this opera (like its earlier sibling Salome) relies heavily upon the orchestra to articulate the interior psychology of the titular character. The grim, austere architecture speaks well to Ståle Wikshåland’s argument that Elektra is a drama preoccupied with interpreting trauma through the aural dimension.Footnote 1
Esa-Pekka Salonen’s meticulous handling of the orchestra lends clarity to Strauss’s dense score and complements Chéreau’s dramaturgy well. Strauss’s score presents unique obstacles, chief among them the sheer density that often threatens to devolve into chaotic torrents of sound. The clarity with which Salonen renders the individual orchestral voices allows those internal lines a means for emerging clearly and crisply out of the larger orchestral tapestry. Salonen similarly executes great discernment in his handling of musical tempo, subtly altering the dramatic pacing of the opera at key points for maximum effect.
Lighting and (for the DVD) camerawork also play a significant role in the success of this production. At the opera’s opening, a harsh brightness illuminates the stage, facilitating a subtle play of light and shadow on the imposing walls to frame Elektra’s opening monologue. As the opera progresses, the general lighting scheme gradually dims at an imperceptible rate, reaching a state of near-complete darkness at the moment Aegisthus returns from the fields, soon to be murdered. Only a few candles provide illumination, emitting eerie globules of light on an almost completely darkened stage. In addition, the attentive camerawork managed by Jean-François Pigné, Brigitte Haegeli, and Paul-Henri Rouget is engaging. The juxtaposition of static shots with longer mobile ones offers the film some visual energy that contrasts with the unchanging set.
But the most striking aspect of this Elektra lies in the singers’ refreshingly nuanced portrayals of their characters. Most notable in this regard is Waltraud Meier, who offers a surprisingly sympathetic depiction of Clytemnestra, wracked with guilt over her crimes. This is a welcome change from the far more common portrayals of the character as a simplistic and grotesque savage, perhaps most extreme among them being Astrid Varney’s depiction in Götz Friedrich’s film production from 1981. Instead, Meier and Herlitzius offer a more complicated mother–daughter dynamic, as when Clytemnestra and Elektra sit on stones facing away from one another, offering one brief moment of familial tenderness. Aegisthus too is afforded a more complex stage disposition, which imbues his death with greater pathos. Conversely, the characterization of Orestes feels attenuated in this production; he is more a primal force of revenge than a fully developed character. Particularly at the opera’s close, his impassive and stunned appearance after the bloodbath suggests the bleak possibility that this may be a tragedy without catharsis.
Evelyn Herlitzius commands well the extreme technical demands of her title role. Strong vocal stamina and acting are necessary to make oneself heard over Strauss’s enormous orchestra while avoiding a characterization of Elektra as a hysterical savage. For Herlitzius, the most conspicuous means by which she embodies the interior mental anguish of Elektra is through her explosive gestures, often throwing herself wildly around the stage like a dancer. Her voice too reflects this inner turmoil, with frequent bursts of intentionally rough-edged dynamic shifts complementing Strauss’s angular melodic lines. When combined with the desolate atmosphere of the staging, the visual impression reflects the larger ongoing drama of the fall of the house of Atreus, perhaps a final bastion of sanity in a world gone awry. By contrast, Adrianne Pieczonka’s Chrysothemis offers some semblance of hope and a marked divergence from the mental anguish of her sister. Although Chrysothemis desires a normal life – wishing to one day raise a family – the surrounding environment highlights just how much irreparable damage has been done to this house by the murder of Agamemnon. The dichotomy between the sisters in this production is best captured through their tortuous duet following the announcement of Orestes’s death, in which Elektra ultimately curses Chrysothemis for her unwillingness to collaborate in the planned revenge.
The more contentious elements of this production derive from the liberties taken with Hofmannsthal’s libretto. Most notable is the death of Aegisthus, which occurs onstage and not by the hand of Orestes but by his Tutor. When juxtaposed with Clytemnestra’s offstage death, this onstage violence slightly imbalances the opera’s dramatic climax. Further, Elektra does not die at the conclusion of this production. Despite what may appear to be a capricious swerve away from the original libretto in both cases, Chéreau’s final chaotic tableau signals an awareness of the theme of cyclical violence that inflects all the various versions of the story told by not only Sophocles, but also Aeschylus in his trilogy comprising the Oresteia. In total this last production by Chéreau acts as a sensitive and thoughtful conclusion to a career marked by innovation. His vision of Elektra as a family drama unfolding within a vaguely post-apocalyptic landscape stands as an insightful exploration of the human capacity to grasp trauma, both internal and external.
